


35 Miles to Forever

by jagerknabe55



Category: The Wandering Jew - Eugène Sue
Genre: Gen, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 05:37:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19717294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jagerknabe55/pseuds/jagerknabe55
Summary: A semi autobiographical work based on the life of the wandering jew and his war with God





	35 Miles to Forever

35 Miles to Forever

By

Jagerknabe55

* * *

I have learned Silence from the talkative...  
Toleration from the intolerant...  
and Kindness from the unkind, yet strangely,  
I am ungrateful to these teachers.

Kahlil Gibran

* * *

Forever never stops hurting.

I know. I've damn near lived that long and can tell you forever ain't what it's cracked up to be. I've gone around the world so many times I no longer have to pay for any kind of travel; all benefit of frequent flyer miles. I've pretty much seen everything there is to see and done everything there is to do and to tell you the truth, I doubt you could show me anything that is truly new, nor could you shock me with anything you say or do.

I have become amoral. That is to say I place no distinction between right or wrong. Do not call on me to render judgments based on morality, for I am a creature of chaos, and chaos can not have anything to do with the extremes of law and the lawless. A friend of mine once postulated, "If it feels good, it is good." I should know for all that is good has desirable qualities and serves the end, but the same can be said of evil. Your good has no definition without evil. So you can find good in anything just as you find evil in everything. Only chaos can exist unto itself.

As for myself, I am an end to the means and on that point, I am a true Enigma. A creature born of the Union of man and woman, I had become an Abomination before the sight of the Lord.

Sight of the Lord. Haha! He is blind in one eye and refuses to see out of the other. Hell, if he would only look at his creation he would have destroyed it 10 times over, though I must admit that it isn't through a lack of trying that he has failed to eradicate this great green ball. Personally I think that he is waiting for man to do it himself. It truly is a miracle that man has failed to reduce the spinning mass of dirt and polluted atmosphere to ruble. Take a look at man's potential. We have developed weapons so Insidious that we can Target a specific individual from thousands of miles away and kill the target without leaving a trace of our culpability. Equally so, we can use Weapons of Mass death to kill every living man, woman, and child on the planet leaving every structure intact... perhaps for a more worthy successor... say the cockroach.

Can Big Juju lay claim to that? Not on your life. He is the god of the Big Bang, the cosmic sneeze and the great flood. Subtlety is not a part of his makeup. Hell this guy goes so far as to get his son lynched. He worked hard at it, too. Then after he let man have his way with his son, he lets loose an 8.2 earthquake, following that up with the worst storm since the great flood... To wash away his culpability in the ACT and thus showing the self-aggrandizement that is inherent in the nature of God.

I should know. I was there.

My name is Joshua Ben Eleazar and I stood at the foot of the cross on which Big JuJu's boy hung until he died. I don't go by that name anymore having adopted many names and personalities during my travels, but most often the appellation of the wandering jew has been my calling card. Of course no one calls me that to my face. They don't dare for I am cursed man, and the weak creature that he is, man fears such a curse would transcend space and time, becoming an irrevocable part of his persona. I wear The Mark of Cain like a badge of distinction one in battle.

Did I say I was there? I even made the funny papers. You know, those fables called the Gospels. There were four of us at the base of the cross from which he hung. Usually there were just a couple of guards assigned to oversee a crucifixion, but in this case the governor bent to the will of the Jewish leadership, which was concerned with the possibility a violent uprising from followers of Big JuJu's son. So it was that he chose to assign additional guards to line the route through the city, as well as doubling the compliment at Golgatha. I had been present at many crucifixions, as was the case with the other three guards. I'm trying to remember their names... At least their faces, but it seems that they have blended into the mists of time along with thousands of other friends and family, lovers and enemies.

Life is one step short of reality and the guy on the cross was experiencing the one true reality... Death. He didn't go quietly either, playing hell with our game of craps. It was customary for the guards to cast lots for the convicts spoils. It was fair, and there wasn't anything personal in what we did. It was a way to make a few asses on the side. After all the convict certainly wasn't going to have any use for it. Not where he was going. But I can tell you this, on a scale of 1 to 10 this guy's stuff was a to... Maybe three at the best. the loincloth we ripped into four parts. I got the ass-end, shit stains and all. It wasn't until later that I found out that it was holy shit. He did have one item of value, a red robe... Which upon closer examination was pretty threadbare.

He was just hanging in there watching the game, while I concentrated on my throat. A hard four as I recall.

Did I mention he calls himself Jesus the Christ? Messiah! Can you believe that? If he was the Messiah he could have gotten himself out of that fix. He had been hanging around for about 3 hours when suddenly he screamed out, "Eloi, Eloi, lamasabachthani!" Really screws up my throw. What was all that crap about? "My God why have you forsaken me?" What the hell did he expect? He was in Roman hands now, experiencing the benevolence of Roman justice. 

"Pax Romana, you bastard!" I shouted at him to shut up and then rolled my number. With a roar of victory, I grabbed the ragged cloak, raised it over my head and shook it at him. I guess that upset him a bit. No sense humor if you ask me.

Sucking in a deep breath, he struggled against the heavy weight of his body on tired ribs and filling his lungs with the caustic mixture of blood and rancid air, he looked down at me with those baleful brown eyes and devoid of any emotion as if he was stepping on a roach, he made his pronouncement. 

" Joshua Ben Eleazar." I never did figure out how he knew my name; I certainly didn't tell him. "I curse thee, son of a motherless father. You shall wander this earth until the day I choose to return."

Then he blinked. Looked up into the sky and shouted, "It is finished!" His head fell to his chest and her gasped a last ragged breath..

(Genuflect here)

It's a funny thing how all four of the gospel writers just concentrated on the good things that came out of his mouth. They even went so far as to change some of the words he said. Take for instance, the Bible states in place of the curse he laid up on me, he said, "Father forgive them for the no not what they do." What's with that?

As far as curses went it wasn't bad, but I've seen better. Perhaps he wasn't feeling 100% when he said it. I once saw this druid lay a curse on some poor unfortunate whose skin literally fell off. Now that's a curse! In all honesty though I must say that the curse of the One-who-isn't-coming was effective, but it wasn't until about 40 years after Big JuJu's boy bit the big one that the full realization of what he did to me struck home. It hit me in the form of a Jewish arrow shot from the parapets of the fortress Masada during the final days of our final encouter of the Jewish wars. By ours, I am referring to the X Legion of Rome. Right to the heart it hit. Ever been shot in the heart? Hurts like hell.

At the time I was a Centurion, a commander of a hundred men. I had made rank through attrition, not necessarily competence . You see most of my friends were either dead or growing old and retiring, not that there is too much difference between the two. I guess that I should have retired myself, but even though I was going on my seventh decade, I didn't look a day over 28. I, and most people who knew me, just figured that I was a freak of nature, a gift from the gods they said. Gift, hell! It was the curse. I was just too stupid to realize it... yet.

I was a dead man. I knew it, so did Marcus Publicus, my second in command and into whose arms I fell when the arrow pierced me. Like any normal human, I was screaming my damn head off and so is he. He was one of those prissy high-bornes who had bought their position in the Legion and didn't take well to the sight of blood. For that matter neither did I when it was my own. After a few minutes a futile howling and getting none the better for it, I slowly came to the realization that I was still alive. That was when I became aware of the pain. It was in describe a bowl, but I knew I was going to have to endure more... The arrow had to come out of my chest.

"Get it out!" I screamed. "For the sake of Jupiter to get the damn thing out." Tears welled up in my eyes and my breathing was becoming more and more ragged. Every nerve in my body was alive. Marcus knelt beside me, his hands shaking like a leaf. He reached for the shaft. I didn't need his trembling hands adding to the unpleasant sensations my body was experiencing at the moment, and despite the pain, my hand leapt out and grabbed him by the collar of the breatplate.

"You make a mess of this and I'll come back from Pluto's halls in haunt you until the day you die!" From the look of terror in his eyes, I could tell the threat got through his thick aristocratic skull, but looking back it really wasn't the wiset thing to do on my part. His fear did little to comfort me and I sighed with forlorn resignation.

"Just get the damn thing out, Marcus," I rasped.

His hand jerk just as he touched the shaft, sending jolts of pain from my chest to my toes. I screamed. I cursed. I threatened. I cried. Finally he stuck a scabbard in my mouth and told me to bite down. After what seemed like hours but in reality was mere moments, he rent the arrow from my chest showering the both of us in a jet of blood that erupted from the jagged wound. With a muted whimper I collapsed into unconsciousness.

\- 1 -

So you thought I died. To be honest, so did I. But who do you think is telling this story. I did experience a bright light, but there was nothing warm or friendly about it. Only a maniacal laughter filled my ears. Perhaps the light came from a sensory overload. I was experiencing a lot of pain.

I had hoped for something else in death. Perhaps my troops gathered around the litter on which my corpse rested. They should have been there to see me on my journey across the Styx. Hell they didn't even give me any coins to pay for the crossing for when I woke from my death sleep my eyes were devoid of any coinage. For that matter, unless Pluto's realm had changed in the few days following my demise, what I was experiencing was wholly unexpected.

That was the problem. Waking. When you're dead, you're dead. No maybes. No howevers. No orgasmic sense of relief. Just an empty void, perhaps with a slight sense of floating, but devoid of consciousness until you appear before the final judge. But none of that for me. When I woke, I opened my eyes on the flaps of my old camp tent. I struggled to comprehend what I was seeing, for I knew that I could not be there. I was dead. My hands scratched my bared chest, my fingernail caught on the ragged lump of flesh that marked the arrow's entry point. My eyes gazed down as my fingers traced the jagged wound. There was no pain, just the angry redness of flesh torn asunder. My eyes traversed the small tent and I noted that all was in its assigned place. I thought of sitting up, but the memory of the agony I suffered gave me pause.

Where was Marcus? He should have been here tending my wounds. I called out to him, but my voice was a feeble croak. Damn him to hell. I was going to have to get up on my own. I grabbed my chest as I rolled into a sitting position, all the time expecting my chest to explode. But there was nothing. No pain. A little discomfort, but there was no pain. I was alive!

It took a little while for it all to sink in. After about a week, I was back on my feet and able to resume command of my Century, much to Marcus's chagrin. He had voiced to others hopes of assuming command upon my demise, which made it a lot easier on me when I slipped a knife between his shoulder blades. Aspiration is good, but too much can be unhealthy.

On the 8th day PD (Post-Death) I was donning my tunic when I noticed the scar on my chest had virtually disappeared. It was then that I suddenly remembered the curse. I hadn't died because I couldn't. I would walk the earth until the One-who-isn't-coming chose to return, when and if that ever happened. But in the meantime I was going to take full advantage of my immortality. His curse had backfired and in reality it was a blessing.. I saw the future lined with gold and power. The Laurel Of Caesar was mine for the taking. No "Et tu, Brute," for me. I would live forever!

\- 2 -

By 170 CE my position in the Empire was secured. Of course we did not refer to it as the common era at the time, and choosing instead to date from the beginning of the current Emperor, or dating from the time of Romulus and Remus first suckled from the wolf teat. I was assisting Marcus Aurelius, our beloved Emperor, writing his Meditations of which I must say I had a strong hand writing these polemic essays. The very idea that moral life leads to tranquility is the very antithesis of the truth. Morality merely leads to conviction of the soul in the ultimate damnation of the spirit. Nature, or that which is accepted by the general populace as natural, is contrary to the creative intent of the universe. And although I argued long and hard with Marcus, I could never get that pigheaded man to see my point of view and change the aspect of its writings. The One-who-isn't-coming created the world as a joke and the human race is the punchline. The struggle of mankind to attain the mythical State of Grace is compounded by Big JuJu's reluctance to help his hapless creation down the route that is clogged with mundane pitfalls and heresies. If man wishes to remain the fool, then I am not going to stand in his way. Rather I will assist him on his journey toward Oblivion, blissfully unaware of the truth which can be found in a single blade of grass.

In gratitude for my careful editing of the Meditations, Marcus adopted me his son, and in Roman fashion gave me the name Lucius Aelius Aurelius Commodus... catchy name. It helps to have an identity change every couple of centuries, after all change invigorates the spirit.

For the next few years I followed Marcus on the campaign trail as he sought to strengthen and extend the boundaries of the empire, Northwest word to the Vistula, in what is modern-day Poland. My experience in the Jewish wars lent itself to this type of fighting and I was able to aquit myself to the satisfaction of the troops under not my command. This would eventually lead to my assumption of the ultimate position of power.

Two days following the Ides of March in the year 180 I became emperor. We, that is Marcus, myself and the legion to the Roman army were resting at Vindobona when Mark is contracted the plague. He wasn't long for the world and on the 17th he breathed his last. When word went out that Marcus Aelius Aurelius Antonius, Emperor of Rome had passed the River Styx - with the proper coinage, I may add - a great riot broke out in camp. Eventually the tent in which I was domiciled was surrounded by legionnaires scream at the top of their lungs. pulling me from the relative safety of the tent, they carried me off on their shoulders all the while proclaiming me emperor of the known Earth.

The first thing to do was to call off the campaign and returned in triumph to the gates of room. The campaign had worn on for far too long in the troops were restless to get back home. This also gave me the opportunity to consolidate my position before some usurper came along. Once in Rome, and after a suitable period of mourning for dear Marcus, I began an administration that one authority concluded to be, "... the most sanguinary and licentious in the history of mankind." Such kind words have rarely been applied to me. It almost brings tears to my eyes.

I hadn't started off that way for a intended to use almost two hundred years of life experiences for the betterment of the empire. But in 183 my beloved step-sister, true daughter of the dear departed Marcus, conspired with a certain body of senators to do away with me. Claiming that I was an imposter, she sought to ambush me on the steps of the Senate. Remind you of anyone? The timely intervention of Perennis, prefect of the Praetorian Guard, averted tragedy. It was only fitting that I should respond in the manner of a god-man in which brutality was the harbinger of a new order.

One cannot have family going around and wreaking all kinds of havoc. Trying to murder the emperor - it is nothing if not bad form. My solution to the matter was nothing, if not unique. It went that I saw it, if people were willing to pay good deneria to watch gladiators cutting each other's throats, then why not a more to see an emperor's sister and her henchmen get their just desserts at the hands of the emperor's gladiators. After that display the games became ever more popular over the next few years, and though a few of the richest man in Rome sought to compete with their own games, there were none which could compete with the spectacles of the emperor.

Christians were all the rage at the time and also very good sports about meeting their demise. It was as if their deaths would enhance their journey to heaven. It is too bad their God did not give a shit. It didn't matter whether it was man, woman or child. Off they would run to meet their Doom, crying the name of the God who had abandoned them. After a while the spectators became jaded with the carnage - death no longer held them in its thrall. So I commanded that the entertainment should be expanded to include orgies prior to the executions in order to combat the drop in attendance.

By 190, my place in history was confirmed on the bodies are forty thousand Christians, so it did not matter that my ring was to end two years later. On the eve of January 1st, 193, a fire bomb exploded in my apartments. It had been set by my chamberlain, Eclectus. He had been joined in the plot by Laetus the new chief of the Praetorian Guard. Perennis having met an unfortunate end on the killing fields are the forum.

Eclectus and Laetus had failed in their attempt on my life as have many assassins in the following centuries. They thought they had killed me, but instead they got my slave, Origen, come I had left on my sleeping mat after an evening of debauchery. Feeling somewhat apathetic towards the laurel and caring with me more wealth and I would need in a hundred lifetimes, I left them with the knowledge that I was dead and made my way North. I could see that the Church of the One-who-isn't-coming was spreading like a plague of locusts devouring everything in its path and it would not be long before it sucked the life out of the empire.

My life became that of a vagabond going from place to place and living the Bohemian life in the Romany-style, saddled by the only true need of man... Food. For my sustenance I fought, cajoled, lied and stole. Nothing was beneath me except work. I take your little tried in the fact that I have never worked a day in my life. If I had to say I had a profession, it would have to be soldiery. Throughout history, the battlefield has been the mark of change, the bloody stain that covers stain of manhood. Too often I find myself trading blows with the enemy simply because my king, Emperor, president or Pope says he is my enemy. It has been said that I have never held a rank higher than sergeant, and unless you count for the time that I was an emperor you could say that is probably true. But when you look at my accomplishments, I certainly merit more consideration. War is an opportunity for personal advancement and as such I had used combat to further my goals and line my pockets. I have worn the boots of every major army from the 1st century to the last. I have become a master of death and dying. I am pale Rider. Kubler-Ross knows nothing of true death. As much as He stands for the so-called light I have fought for the dark. It has become my goal to free the world from Big JuJu's lies and deceptions. I have followed the roads of Rome, rode with the hordes of Goths and Huns, sailed with the Vikings and the Barbary coasters. I have fought with Mehmet at the gates of Constantinople and Napoleon at Moscow. But nothing could compare with the horrors of the trenches of France.

16 April 1917

The concussion from the explosion knocked me flat on my back and if I hadn¨t been relieved of consciousness, I most certainly would have joined my comrades-in-arms either screaming for the protection of our mother¨s bosoms or cursing the Maker as he so justly deserved.

The exposed flesh of my face and hands had been pealed back so far it was more commonplace to see the sickly white of tendon and bone, rather than the softly sun-scorched flesh that once covered my extremities. Consciousness came flooding back in the form of a strangulated scream like I was making a futile prayer for relief from my injuries. Shock from the grievous wounds prevented the true extent of my wounds from being know, but any passer-by would have most assuredly taken me for dead. My chest heaved against cracked ribs as I struggled for every breath. My lungs suddenly began to burn as the fetid air I had been forced to breathe was replaced by a yellowish haze the slowly passed over the battlefield seeking out every living organism. The Angel of Death, astride the pale horse, made his appearance.I cried like a babyas the insidious vapor seemed to eat me alive from the inside out. I shouted a cry for help that could only be heard echoing in my ears.

Through the tears that clouded my eyes, I could see a blurred form weaving its way through the body strewn field. He was right on top of me before I realized he was the pale walker clad in the uniform of the Medical Corp but not bound by the oath of Hippocrates. Thinking he was doing me a favor, he held a hand, weeping blood, while he slid an 18-inch dagger through my chest, piercing my heart and severing my spine.  
"Sorry mate," he whispered in my ear as he rose to leave. I was left to ponder just how much more punishment this ancient body could take, while his final words rang in my ears. "May God be with you."

* * *

There are certain advantages to being a god, whether or not one is truly a deity. I certainly had longevity of a god and therefore had to pay the price when one battles Fate for such a long time. When you deal with the Fates, you must be prepared to cast your concerns to the wind of Providence, which cares not one iota for the contentment of the individual or the race. Time is the curse of Fate for there is always too much or never enough. Right now I am experiencing the former.

One can never fault German efficiency for before I could even begin to explain my rather unique recuperative powers, I found myself a being tossed into the bed of a wagon and hauled off to one of the many cemeteries that have suddenly popped up near history's battlefields. There I was unceremoniously dumped into a freshly dug a ditch, joining 40 other recently departed comrades or pieces thereof. They used one of those tanks equipped with a huge blade in the front to push the dirt over the interred and in mere moments I found myself in my last resting place.

When I finally realized what has happened to me, I was frantic. A suffocating weight of earth pressed against me while I went mad a hundred times over just trying to move the barest of inches. Rotting corpses were all about me, imprisoning my battered flesh. For some reason our uniforms have been stripped off us, perhaps the Germans were in short supply. Someone's ass was crushed against my face and the stench of rotting decay filled my nostrils. Big Juju was rolling on his throne.

I had little to do while I waited for my neighbor's to decay enough so I could move enough to start digging myself out. Little to do but think. there is a theory that the wars between the masters of creation keys are not a battle between good and evil, but rather good and evil combined against chaos. How ironic it is that good that is represented by the triune God and his minions choose to ignore chaos, while evil uses chaos to achieve its own end. Man is chaos, a creature created by Big Juju and intended to remain in idyllic bliss, but through cunning, either himself or the evil one, man was able to escape his gilded cage using the wiles of evil as its tool. Man, just as any other created hominid, is the essence of chaos and is certain to achieve the destruction of the dichotomy of good and evil. In the same vein good and evil will continue to seek the ruin of man through subterfuge aimed at the individual and in turn the destruction of the race.

Dualism cannot permit the existence of a third element. The extremes of good and evil represent a harmony that cannot exist with the introduction of a third element. Man is the enzymatic attraction between the two extremes which no matter the number of infinite combinations between the two extremes, quantitative or qualitative, harmony is lost and only chaos will emerge victorious. Harmony can only exist when the chaos of Free Will is eliminated from the formula of life.

Plain and simple God fucked up when he created man.

* * *

It was fourteen years before I saw the sun crest the horizon. My lungs burned from the sudden presence of oxygen, while my muscles cried at even the slightest exertion. It was dusk before I could crawl my way into a safe haven. Europe had changed over the years and I was not interested in becoming part of the new order that was sweeping the continent. I was tired of war and made my way to the shores of the New World.

Today

The San Carlos bar in Monterey, as with most bars, is a dark place barely illuminated by multicolor neon signs professing to the quality of everything from O'Dhoul's... what the hell is a non-alcoholic beer... to Budweiser the king of bottled beer. The signd cast an eerie glow through the bar room, illuminating the expectant faces of my court while I sat on my stool next to the waitress station. it was my own stool signed, sealed, and delivered... paid for in perpetuity. A man should always leave something for his fellow man to remember him by. For Caesar it was an empire... Napoleon had his Waterloo and I... I leave the best, this barstool, imbued with man's headiest desires and freed from all inhibition. There have been many in night when I would sit astride my throne and regale my court with erudite witticisms and general observations on life through the eyes of one who has been there. On those nights when I was not enough, I would call upon the box.

The box set at the end of the bar on the other side of the waitress station. A rosewood box which once graced the halls of the palace of the French King, it serves to hold one of my most prized possessions. The head of Marie Antoinette, daughter of emperor Francis the first and Maria Theresa.

I first ran across Marie on the afternoon of 16th of October 1793. Like most parisians, I had come to the Palais-du-Justice to watch Marie meet her Fate. As a roar burst from the crowd, I thought an appointment with Madame la Guillotine might be the way to cheat the One-who isn't-coming out of his fun. I had experienced just about every form of death possible and was none the worse for wear; decapitation just might work. Thoughtfully I wandered the streets as I slowly made my way back to my flat, just off the Rue de la Morgue. Suddenly a child's ball rolled against my feet, drawing me from my reverie. As I bent over to pick up the ball, I realized I was holding a human head, the head of Marie Antoinette. This was too fortuitous and desiring as an object to study my theory, I dispossessed the children of their booty and made my way home. I was just turning down my street when I heard a voice.

"Thank you, kind citizen. I did not know what I was going to do."

I am not shocked by much, but when the head thanked me for the rescue, it was more than I could handle at the moment and I dropped it in one of those many piles of horse dung that littered the streets of Paris. Quickly recovering my senses, I fished her out of the shit and held her by her locks as I made my way home. There I thoroughly washed her off before the stench could overwhelm me. From the first time that she spoke, she hadn't stopped talking. So it was that I obtained at the rosewood box. To this day that is her existence; to speak when the lid is raised, otherwise to remain in a semi-eternal silence once the lid falls. So much for my meeting with Madame la Guillotine. Marie is my ever-present companion and while I could have done worse, her upkeep is small and she does provide me with some amusement.

epilogue

I just had an intimate conversation with God and he told me to tell you to go to hell. That is the way with him. Work your whole damn life, all to bring glory to the One-who-isn't-coming and how does he repay you. The sword of Damocles hangs over each and every head just waiting for the misstep that will bring it down. Doesn't it seem ironic is that a maker so kind, so benevolent that he would sacrifice his own son for our sins, would be so petty as to hold an imperfect creation, and I don't mean to remind you he lays claim to being the creative force... he holds this poor creature to standards of perfection that even he can't meet.

There are few who can honestly say they understand Big Juju as well as I. I have tarried upon the Earth far too long not to come to an understanding of man and men. It is in that understanding that one comes to know the Creator. I know him well enough not to fear him. Why should I? I taken all the son of a bitch has to offer and have given back more. I wear the scars of a hundred battles and just as much if not more emotional baggage. You have no comprehension what it is to outlive sixty generations of lovers, friends, and family. I have been cursed with not the least of which is a perfect memory of the sons and daughters I have sired. Their kin on down through the ages had become indelibly imprinted upon my mind. The memories of my children laughing and crying, being born and dying... of wives and lovers, lost carresses and lusty nights... of friends and confidants and long steeped conversations bland and exhilarating... of warriors, allied and enemy, and battles long forgotten by most and cherish by few. These are my cross. These are my soul.

35 miles. it is 35 miles from Yerushalayim where I hung that bastard on the tree to Horvot Mazada where that fateful arrow pierced my chest. 35 miles to forever.

The names I have worn through history's halls are stained with heroism and cowardice. Wisdom and ignorance remain for the messenger of yore to justify for incapable of the grizzly task. Only She-who-is-without-sight can sit in judgment of my actions. My judgment has been taken away from the One-who-isn't-coming, for Fate has something different in mind. But if he does deem it necessary to traverse the mist of space and time, finally claiming responsibility for his errant creation, and dragging the pale horse behind, well... here I shall sit, whiskey in hand and a bottle on the bar and I just made by him a drink not because he deserves it by any stretch of the imagination, but because he'll need it.

Nunc Dimitis

Luke 2:29

**Author's Note:**

> I truly hope that you enjoyed it and would love to hear from you. I don't know how that is accomplished but I am sure that you probably know better than I


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